Just Call Me Bridget

I wrote this a week ago. But forgot to post it. And as a disclaimer (because I like disclaimers), I'm not even slightly burdened by this anymore. It was just a moment. That is all. I wish him well.


He's getting married. And there are whispers of envy, confusion, sadness and self-pity echoing in my head. Questions I don't usually spend much time with start looping over and over: What's wrong with me? How is this possible? Why do I care so much? Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret. (Okay, so I don't usually call myself Margaret....) Cue the whining.

I'm shocked by my own reaction. And uncomfortable. And embarrassed. (Although not embarrassed enough to not blog about it.)

No, I don't want to marry him. At all. Never have. I can't recall a single moment of crushing, pining or even curiosity toward said fellow. Quite the opposite. In fact, I would have assumed that my chances of getting married were far greater than his. Isn't that horrible? To be so sure that you're a greater catch than someone else? To mercilessly judge others and condemn them to singleness because you would never date them? So now I feel like crap on two very different levels.

He headed out on some great adventure and found his beautiful match. I stayed home and found a rotting grape under my fridge. (That's not a metaphor. There was an actual grape under my actual fridge.)

So while he's picking confetti out of his hair this weekend, I'll be blogging about nothing much and wondering why one geek gets a wedding while another gets a bowl of macaroons and a slow Internet connection.

At least lip-syncing, like time, heals all wounds. I'm only partially joking.

November 2, 2002

I don't remember that day. But it must have been a bad one.

Nov. 2, 2002

And I'm sick & tired & angry & lonely & disappointed & cold & broken & foolish & desperate & isolated & so terrified that my heart is going to shrivel up and die.

~Journal

"It's 3 a.m., I must be lonely..."

"I haven't slept in a year."
~ Trevor (Christian Bale, The Machinist)

How do people go to sleep? I'm afraid I've lost the knack. I might try busting myself smartly over the temple with the night-light. I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things.

~Dorothy Parker

I almost went mad last night. In a Whitney Houston "crack is wack" kind of way. The variety of shaky, unstable crazy that's great for the memoir but dangerous to the brain.

It was 11:15. And like any tired young woman with work in the morning, I went to bed. But I am not "any tired young woman." I did not sleep. At all.

There was no noise to keep me awake. No light. Maybe a little heat. No real stress. No pain. No giddy little butterflies that would keep me from nodding off. Nope. Just hours of blank nothingness.

I've never been so aware of my shoulders. For hours, I couldn't get comfortable, as if I had grown broader and didn't know where to place my head, neck and shoulders in relation to each other. I didn't just toss and turn; I twisted. At one point, I was lying perpendicular across my mattress, which is quite the feat when you sleep in a single bed. I folded my pillow in half. Then I went without one.

There is nothing more frustrating than sleepless exhaustion. Of course, the moment you start stressing about your lack of sleep, the more incapable of sleeping you become.

So I lay there. Waiting. Pretending to sleep. Hoping I could trick my body into actual slumber. By 3 a.m., I was ready to cry. Except that I was too tired to bother. I was overheated, uncomfortable and angry. I contemplated taking a "sleep day," but knew that a project was half-done and couldn't subject coworkers to cleaning up a half-finished mess.

I finally fell asleep. My alarm went off two hours later.

I. Am. Tired. My throat has ached all day. My head pounds. My insomnia was either caused by approaching illness, or it triggered my new suffering.

I should go to bed. But I won't. Not yet. I won't crawl beneath those blankets until I'm completely crash-ready. Delayed gratification, if you will. Sleep will be that much more sweeter when I don't have to think about sleeping. Unless I still don't sleep.

I could always star in the sequel to The Machinist, I suppose.



"It's 3 a.m., I must be lonely...."
The most gorgeous version ever. (Starts at 0:51.)
Although this version is also pretty great.



Can you believe that song was released TWELVE years ago? I feel so old. And tired.

No Sex, Just Prada

You have no idea how many times I've heard women say that they talk just like the characters from Sex and the City. And then proceed to talk nothing like them. Here's the deal: Carrie Bradshaw and friends speak like gay men. Apparently, this is aspirational for straight women.

The show is pure fantasy. Not many freelance writers can afford luxury New York digs and still support a designer-shoe habit. We secretly wish we had the accessorizing guts, but we play it much safer than the almost cartoonish runway looks on Sarah Jessica Parker. And as someone who has no Mr. Big in her life (Really, girls, do we actually throw around nicknames like that? Oh, wait. I did know a Muffinhead and a Mustard. Yeah. Small-town boys, obviously), I struggle to even slightly relate to the woes of the stiletto'd ones.

So I have my own fantasy-fashion resource. Sharing Sex's costume-designing wonder, the uber-famous stylist Patricia Field, my go-to flick about designer duds in New York is The Devil Wears Prada. Because I want that wardrobe. And because I relate to the whole "I'm done school and am now in quarter-life limbo as I dream of doing something fulfilling but still need to pay the rent, unfortunately sometimes at the expense of my soul" thing. It's eye candy that understands my angst.

But when I say I'm a Prada fan, I mean the movie. Not the book. It's a pretty rare phenomenon, but occasionally the original novel just lacks something. In this case, the book lacks character development. And Meryl Streep. And these outfits:


Head on over to MovieZen (you knew I was going somewhere with this), and check out my other picks that are better than the book.

P.S. I should wear more hats.
P.P.S. Both Sex and Prada will be atrociously outdated in approximately three minutes.

on her toes: the book

I spent my entire day at my computer. I came to two very real conclusions:

1. A wooden computer chair is a stupid idea.
2. I should marry a masseuse. Or at least visit one.

I've become obsessed with the idea of writing a book. Do I actually have a book idea? Not really. Not yet. Well, maybe. But that hasn't stopped my new preoccupation with all things self-publishing. I started at Lulu. Then I wasted a rather significant amount of time on TasteBook, pondering the art of the cookbook, and then headed over the Blurb, where I slurped my blog into a book. You have no idea how this completely blew my mind. Right up until my computer crashed.

Notes to self:

1. Buy a laptop. One that doesn't crash.
2. Have an adventure. Write about it. Or write about lack of adventure.
   
3. Publish a book. Any book. Even just a photo book of an aging computer.
4. Cross off "publish something" from the famous Bucket List.

Sigh. There's no way Shakespeare looked like Joseph Fiennes. Not even a little bit.

And yes, the first photo is of my bookshelf. I'm also slightly addicted to Photoshop Express.

For Nathan

Weezer's new video is one big YouTube party.

I'm not gonna lie, I kind of dig Rivers and the boys. Anyone who sings "I don't give a hoot" is all right by me.

"Pork and Beans" is a catchy, self-referential rocker, with the buzzsaw guitars and big choruses of Weezer's glory days, and that familiar, self-assured lameness."

~Marc Hogan, Pitchfork Media

Jonah Envy?

Jonah Hill is my age. Actually, he's younger than me. He's been in 17 movies in the last four years. Most of them pretty big hits. And as part of the Judd Apatow gang (the brains behind 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, Superbad, and Forgetting Sarah Marshall), he gets to hang out with his pals, abandon vanity for the sake of a laugh and rake in the dough. Pretty great gig if you can get it.

And now it looks like he'll be exercising his writing and producing powers in a film adaptation of the TV show that catapulted Mr. Depp to fame, 21 Jump Street. Yeah. The Johnny Depp. Jonah may be on the rise, but "heartthrob" isn't really his niche. So I'm assuming this will be a loose adaptation, if he should choose to cast himself.

Head over to MovieZen and read my thoughts on adapting TV shows for the big screen. As a general rule, DON'T DO IT.

I shall now go and ponder the great mystery of Hill's fame. And see if I can avoid envy while borrowing a little of his creative quirkiness for my own career....

I could totally be the stoner buddy in a movie. It's about time we saw a lazy girl deadpanning one-liners while her slightly less pathetic friends wins in love.

...And Tragedy

Not everything about today was happy.

Maria Sue Chapman (2003-2008)

Steven Curtis Chapman’s youngest child died Wednesday evening after being struck by a car driven by her teenage brother in the driveway of the family’s Williamson County home.

Maria, one of the Christian singer’s six children, was taken by LifeFlight to Vanderbilt Hospital, which confirmed the death, according to Laura McPherson, a spokeswoman for the Tennessee Highway Patrol.

The 5-year-old was hit by an SUV driven by her teenage brother, she said. Police did not give the driver’s name.

The teen was driving a Toyota Land Cruiser down the driveway of the rural home at about 5:30 p.m. and several children were playing in the area, McPherson said. He did not see Maria in the driveway before the vehicle struck her, she said.

“It appears to be a terrible accident,’’ McPherson said.

No charges are expected, she said. The accident was witnessed by two other children; the entire family was home at the time, McPherson said.

Singer/songwriter Chapman, who recently was inducted into Music City Walk of Fame, is one of contemporary Christian music’s most recognizable and most awarded names.

read the rest

I almost cried at my computer today. Over a YouTube video of a dad doing the dishes with his daughter. Because she's gone. And he's heartbroken. And her brother must be shattered. I can't even imagine....

Happy Thursday

He's back!

I would love to be a fly on the wall in a production meeting with Lucas and Spielberg. Their film just oozes with little-boy wonder and crazy imagination. Movies that were fun to make end up being fun to watch. And you know they were having a blast on this set. How could you not? Harrison Ford gets to hide in a fridge. A classic moment in all great masterpieces.

And thank you, Karen Allen, for letting your face age like a normal person's. Nice to see a woman free of deforming poisonous injections.

Were the sci-fi rumors true? Maybe. But this is Thursday. And I'm fond of my supernatural Thursdays.

I heart Indiana Jones.
And Cate Blanchett.
Even Shia.
I need a fedora.

Werewolf Behind the Wall

It is almost 1 a.m. I am not asleep.

The howling. It. Won't. Stop.

The Boy Behind the Wall is a werewolf. Mystery solved.

Blog and Ye Shall Receive

Yesterday, I waxed poetic about Jimmy and my need to spend an evening with The Philadelphia Story.

This morning, I arrived at work to be met with a DVD of said film. Because I work with really cool people. I don't often blog about work or friends. Mostly because I don't wanted to get dooced.* Which apparently means "getting fired for something you've written on your blog." Oh, the stories I could tell....

But I do go to work. And I do have friends. Shocking, I know.

So, thanks, Kathleen. You're the Kate Hepburn of closed captioning. And will be recruited to write the comic-book version of this blog one day.

And while I'm in the mood to acknowledge coworkers, check out this gorgeous necklace.

This was my birthday gift last year. Made by Sarah. Check out her fabulous Etsy shop. And then buy stuff. Lots of it. Or all of it.

Oh, and if you're a coworker who feels excluded by your lack of mention in this post, you should blog. Or lend me movies. Or make me things. And I might acknowledge/link to you too. Maybe.

*Dooce.com is my newest blogstalking obsession. Thanks, Beth.
A blogroll will show up on on her toes shortly. Pinky swear.

Jimmy

1908-1997

If James Stewart were still alive, today would be his 100th birthday. Happy birthday, Jimmy.

I should probably go watch The Philadelphia Story in his honor. Or It's a Wonderful Life. Which moves me a little more each December. I anticipate that by the time I have my own imperfect little family like the Baileys, I'll be spending my Christmas Eves sobbing.

"...the richest man in town." Sniffle.


And as pointed out by my coworkers, the Jimmy quote of the day should be:

Please! I wanna live again. I wanna live again. Please, God, let me live again.

~George Bailey, It's a Wonderful Life

Everyone should have a dead boyfriend. Or two.

Journaling at 18

July 24, 2002
8:10 a.m.

I'm at my usual place, behind a table marked by a bristol-board sign with smeared Crayola artwork across it. Just like yesterday. But yesterday, as I was impatiently waiting for parents to remove their children from the premises so that I could leave to endure the agony of dress shopping, a little 6-year-old boy, Simon*, limping after having a cast removed from his weak little leg, sat down beside me and broke my heart. He wasn't trying to get a sympathetic reaction, is just seemed that the death of his father was the only logical conversation topic his young mind could conjure up. So I listened. It all started with him briefly mentioning that the reason his mom was picking him up all the time was because his dad was dead. I was reactionless. I had no strength to move a single muscle in my face that might force an expression of kindness or love. I didn't like the imposing silence, so I asked him when he died. Three months ago. He was 6 then, as he is now. Only now he's fatherless, and the age of 6 will loom over his precious head and haunt his big blue eyes for a long time.

His mom asked his dad how he felt at work that day. "Fine" was the response, and it was most likely an honest one. That evening, Simon was in his room, waiting for his dad to come in and give him a hug. He never came. He collapsed on the floor of the master bedroom, a heart attack stealing the only hug a little boy will ever want but never have.

Last time they saved him. "They" being the paramedics and "last time" being a heart attack that didn't rob a family of joy. Now I understand the frantic desperation behind the eyes of Simon's mother, the sadness that contradicts her forced smile.

Simon was too scared to look at his father, dead on the floor. He was afraid that if he entered the room, he, too, would fall down and die.

That's what I felt like doing.

*name has been changed.

(Gospel) Music Monday

Okay, so some of you reading this (Dad, I'm looking at you), aren't into country music. At all. Which is cool. I can almost respect that. Here's the thing: Dolly Parton isn't country. She's legend. And I sort of adore her new song. The secret to knocking Nadine off her feet (my Kryptonite, if you will) is to cue a powerful gospel choir. Seriously. If you're my boss and you want to transfer me to a remote village accessible only by canoes in the far north, just have a gospel choir singing in the background when you ask me. And I will go. So look past Dolly's cartoonish exterior. She's a songwriting genius. I nominate "Jesus & Gravity" for song of the day. Or week. Maybe the season. We shall see.



And keeping with the country-meets-gospel theme, here's my favorite Keith Urban moment ever (poor video quality, but a choir of Katrina survivors makes up for it). I want his hair. Actually, I'd rather look like him than look like Dolly. No offense to the legend.



So this is turning into a YouTube party. I'm not sure if I should apologize or say "you're welcome." I just figured I'd keep hitting you with gospel-choir moments I love. Such as Jars of Clay's "Alright." A gospel choir AND whistling. Can you get any better? Oh, 1999.... (Yes, I'm going in reverse chronological order today.) Oh, and for those trying to figure me out, this is still one of my favorite songs. Ever.



And then there's Sister Act 2. Because that one note (at 2:30) chills me. Although it's nothing compared to the Mariah Carey genius (3:00 to the end) here. Seasonally inappropriate, perhaps, but still....

Remember that City High song "What Would You Do"? That song haunted me for my entire summer of laundry. It's been a long time since I've heard Ryan Toby sing....

Oh, and I wish Lauryn Hill would get her act together and make music again.



Shoot. Now I have "Mariah Carey Christmas gospel" (yes, it's a new genre) in my head. So I'll try to wrap this up without listing my favorite Christmas-choir moments. So I'll link you to a choir in Quebec rockin' their version of "Oh, Happy Day." The guest soloist shows up around the 2-minute mark. And then it gets seriously awesome from that point on. Promise.

"Oh, Happy Day" indeed. I think I'm going to go to church in Quebec now....

Perfect Strangers

"Don't talk to strangers." This is the great wisdom bestowed on the tiny, usually in the same breath as, "Did you make any new friends today?" No wonder my generation is hopped up on therapy and anti-anxiety drugs. Are we supposed to run away from strangers or befriend them?

As much as I don't want to admit it, there's definitely a bit of "fear of the unknown" in me. Probably in you too. And I guess strangers would fit neatly into that category. And thanks to Hollywood, we associate unfamiliar faces with stab wounds and overzealous soundtracks. And there's no better time for a terrifying stranger to wreak havoc on the innocent than in moments of idyllic bliss.

Case in point: Boy Behind the Wall. I'm sleeping peacefully when a high-pitched yell echoes from the other side of my wall. Right beside my head. Stupid hockey game. Do boys not know how to silently cheer when the game goes into overtime? The odd thumping and banging from his apartment once had the girl upstairs concerned for his life. Which is, I suppose, better than fearing for her own life.


So take Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman. Beautiful people. Give them a vacation home. Add champagne and candlelight. Have them terrorized by strangers.

From the trailer of The Strangers, I'm doubting that these particular strangers are guitar-playing boys they share a laundry room with. I'm pretty good at plot-predicting like that. No, if there's one thing I've learned from my limited exposure to horror films, is that strangers exist with the sole purpose of trying to make sure that you no longer do.

But keep in mind that if it wasn't for a stranger...
...Forrest Gump wouldn't have had anyone to tell his story to at the bus stop.
...George Bailey would have killed himself.
...Tom Hanks would still be "Sleepless in Seattle."
...Julia Roberts would still be wearing a hideous wig on a street corner.
...Haley Joel Osment's pay-it-forward plan would have been a dismal failure.

So, kids, befriend strangers. Just not creepy ones. And sure, you can still lock your doors.

And as a side note, I think I'd like to go camping with Scott Speedman. He seems like he'd be good at chopping wood and fishing. And at lending you his plaid flannel shirt. Nice to see him post-Felicity and non-Underworld-ish. And yes, I thought this before finding the picture below. It just supports my camping-buddy intuition.

Of Fraggles and Wild Things

Yesterday, I was quite determined to go shopping after work. That is, until my workday ended. The moment I left the office, I became obsessed with the idea of sweatpants and my couch. All paycheck-spending inspiration had vanished. So I went home and embraced coziness.

Had I gone shopping, there is a pretty significant chance that I would have bought this shirt at Urban Outfitters:
Because it's the gnarliest thing, this '80s obsession. It's funny how I didn't realize that I had a Utopian childhood until My Little Pony and Smurfs merchandise started popping up a few years ago. But now it's all about nostalgia immersion. Everyone is making a comeback. The New Kids are "Hangin' Tough." Whitney Houston has an album in the works. Indiana Jones is back. And I have leggings on my shopping list.

And perhaps most exciting of all, a Where the Wild Things Are movie is in the works. Starring the always-rad Paul Dano and Forest Whitaker.

Also in preproduction stages is a Fraggle Rock flick. A live-action musical, to be more precise. Head over to MovieZen, and I'll tell you all about it.

And this is how you end a blog entry about nostalgic consumerism:

Leonardo: We were awesome!
Michaelangelo: Bodacious!
Raphael: Bitchin'!
Donatello: Uh....
Michaelangelo: Gnarly!
Leonardo: Radical!
Raphael: Totally tubular, dude!
Michaelangelo: Wicked!
Leonardo: Hellacious!
Donatello: Uh, mega....
Splinter: Ahem. I have always liked.... Cowabunga.
All: COWABUNGA!
Splinter: I made a funny!

A Superhero in Stilettos

The Met Costume Institute's Gala had a superheroes theme this year. Of course, most of the models and actresses wore typical couture gowns of sparkle and pouf while teetering on monster-high Manolos, always thisclose from the dreaded face-meet-the-floor. All in vain hope of trying to impress Vogue's ice-queen-editor Anna Wintour. Why would anyone want to impress the inspiration for The Devil Wears Prada?

Christina Ricci took the theme to heart. Wonder Woman meets high fashion. Love it.




source

Little Girl Me

I came across some old journals this past weekend. I'm finding them more depressing than entertaining. Partly because of their shallowness. Partly because I still resonate with some of what's written. And partly because Teenybopper Me needed a good shaking: "Wake up, Nadine! Take advantage of the great adventure that is adolescence! Stop pining and start living!" But that's what growing up is for. And what journal-writing is about when you're young. So I shall try to cut myself a little slack.

I want to get to know Little Girl Me again. But she didn't write very often. Or very well. Just in shallow little spurts about infatuations, preoccupied with a future that I'm not living.

I wish I knew then what I would want to read about now....

God,

Today, ***** and I were pretending restaurant. It felt great. I was a young child again.

Lately I've been pretending a lot. I miss my childhood! Now I'm a kid again. It feels wonderful!

I like playing with dishes, Barbies, dolls and young children because it reminds me of innocence. No worries. Just fun.

Why can't we all feel this way?

~ Journal: Nadine, 11 years old

I was only 11 and already pining for my childhood. Tragic.

Beauty Is Overrated

What do the following gentlemen have in common?

Christian Bale
Ryan Gosling
Zachary Levi
Jake Weber
Lee Pace
James McAvoy
Matt Damon
Denzel Washington
Matthew Fox
Casey Affleck
Hugh Laurie
George Newbern
David Krumholtz
Josh Holloway
Joshua Jackson
Jake Gyllenhaal
Henry Ian Cusick

Okay, so I cheated. They all have TWO things in common.

1. They each fall into a "fake boyfriend" or "favorite character" or "will watch anything he's in" category. Yes, at some point in my short little life, I've probably said "I love" before each one of their names.
2. Most shockingly, NOT ONE made it onto People Magazine's "100 Most Beautiful People" list. I'm personally offended. Apparently, I'm not into beauty. And they even expanded the list from 50 to 100.
   

And then there are the gorgeous women. Again, most of my favorites were absent:

No Natalie Portman. No Evengeline Lilly. No Julia Roberts. No Helen Mirren. No Cate Blanchett. No Keri Russell. No Michelle Williams. No Rachel McAdams. No Sandra Bullock.

The list just confused me. I don't understand how the casts of Gossip Girls and The Hills define beauty. Probably because I don't equate "vacant physical attractiveness" with "beautiful." I like substance. Instead of silently fuming over the ridiculousness of arbitrary "pretty" lists, I blogged about it over at MovieZen. So go check it out. Because you love me, whether I'm on some list or not.

P.S. You're all on my list. Blog readers are gorgeous.

YouTube Party with the Boys

Ever have an afternoon that begins with one YouTube video and ends up spiralling into a two-hour video-hopping escapade? Yeah, that was my Friday. Good to be home. With brothers. And a friend of a brother. And a dad occasionally popping in.

Hilarious video below. My new word is "withdrawn." I will use it after every carefully planned insult from now on.

I heart Batman.

Becoming Real

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

~The Velveteen Rabbit

image source

Non-Moms: A Hollywood Mother's Day

Rory: One of the girls already hates me. The guys are weird.
Lorelai: Weirder than other guys?
Rory: Yeah, they kept calling me Mary.
Lorelai: You're kidding me. Wow, I can't believe they still say that.
Rory: Why? What does it mean?
Lorelai: It means like, Virgin Mary. It means they think you look like a goody-goody.
Rory: You're kidding.
Lorelai: No.
Rory: Well, what would they have called me if they thought I looked like a slut?
Lorelai: Well, they might have added a Magdalene to it.
Rory: Wow. Biblical insults. This is an advanced school.

~Gilmore Girls

Who hasn't had the above conversation with their mom?


Did you know that Lauren Graham (Lorelai) is not a mom? She was the wittiest mom is television history, but had no bratty children to practice her lines on: "I love my little circus freak."

Lorelai: Stop saying "mother" like that.
Rory: Like what?
Lorelai: Like there should be another word after it.

Equally interesting to me (and probably no one else), is that Bonnie Hunt doesn't have kids either. She's like the cinematic everymom, super-approachable and effortless to love. She does so well with the frenzy and the chaos, the juggling of huge family, career and dog. Beethoven, Cheaper By the Dozen, Life with Bonnie. It's all an act. I suppose that makes her an actor. I'm both impressed and slightly saddened. Not that I know her. But I think she'd be a cool mom.

Every once in a while, I think quietly to myself, "I wish I were Bonnie Hunt." Just a little career crush. Love her approachability. And smarts. And hilarity. And fictional marriage to Steve Martin (who also has no children. Weirdness). Plus, she was in Rain Man. I want to be in Rain Man. With a pre-crazy Cruise and an always-genius Hoffman.


Do you know who is a mom? (Dumbest question ever, considering my picture-posting habits.) Susan Sarandon. Do you know where I'm going with this post? Check out my little entry on this über-cool mom just in time for Mother's Day over at MovieZen.

And then rent Little Women.

Josh Ritter, anyone?

"Real Long Distance"

Josh blogs about the video here. I heart him. And love this song.
He'll be opening for Blue Rodeo in Toronto this summer.
I may be there.

Or I could just wait for the New Kids concert in the fall. I know I could find a cheaper excuse to crimp my hair, but the idea of reliving a part of the '80s I didn't even really live is pretty fascinating. I guess it's Coupland's "legislated nostalgia" again. Their new single wins the award for guilty pleasure of the day. I won't pretend to hate it. That would be mean. And a lie.

I was a little schizo with music today. I also had Edwin McCain's "I'll Be" in my head. All day. To the point where I was singing it aloud. In the shower. On the street. I don't care if it's the most overplayed love song of my generation. I'm still a sucker for it. So if you're a boy with a guitar (and you secretly love me), you have your hint :)

Or just write me an original. I could live with that....

Past Lives

I can't explain it. This just resonates with me.
Maybe it's my love of the derelict. And of untold stories.

Gorgeous photography available at Etsy. And here.
Irene Suchocki - isphotography

The World Needs a Hero....

I've been on a documentary kick lately. Last night, I watch My Kid Could Paint That. It made me want to smush some paint around on a canvas and then pay off my student loans with its sale. It's funny how it's greater art because a kid did it. The moment skeptics accused her father of helping her, no one wanted to buy the paintings anymore. So it's only worth $25,000 because a 4-year-old's paintbrush touched it?

I'll never forget watching Super Size Me. I was oddly fascinated. Instead of repulsed, I found myself craving French fries. Hilariously, my family finished off an entire batch of cinnamon buns while watching. So much for being inspired to eat healthy. Right then, Morgan Spurlock became a bit of a filmmaking hero to me. He's not as abrasive as Michael Moore often is (although I loved Bowling for Columbine). Instead, he seems to approach the world with a wide-eyed curiosity that I find both compelling and endearing. And while I’m sure he has an agenda, I don’t feel assaulted with it.

He's back. And he's asking the very question that popped into my head while I was listening to the news on the radio last week: Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden?

Taking a cue for the lone action hero of adventure films, he heads to the Middle East in search of the ultimate evildoer who, at times, seems to be almost forgotten despite the ongoing war that was started in his honor. I'm assuming Spurlock doesn't find him. (Unless the U.S. government has promised to keep his capture a secret until the film's release. Somehow I doubt it.)

It will be funny. It will probably make me think. The lines between good and evil may be blurred. The soundtrack will possibly allude to the Indiana Jones-esque heroes we expect to swoop in and save us from a terrorism showdown. And while I'll try to keep the cinnamon-bun consumption to a minimum, I fully anticipate craving the dangerous adventure he embarks on.

Whatever happened to Kimmy Gibbler?

This picture makes me happy. Sure, there are some notable absentees (John Stamos, Mary-Kate & Ashley Olsen, Jodie Sweetin), but the presence of Steve trumps any disappointment.

When I was 16, I did too much homework. I shelved books at the town library. I babysat for $3 an hour.

When Scott Weinger was 16, he was Aladdin. That makes him immortal. And my first animated crush. Swoon.

Starting at 0:46 - The Full House gang are at Disneyland. D.J. hallucinates and thinks Aladdin is Steve. For three seconds. Oh, those funny writers.

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O Canada, Our Home and Ill-Dressed Land

Every once in a while, I convince myself that I'm going to get in shape. Of course (perhaps conveniently?), last week I managed to get blisters on the heels and little toes of both feet, considerably delaying my dream of becoming a runner. Or jogger. Or speed-walker. One day I will run a 5k. Or at least walk to work (just short of 10k). I actually enjoy walking everywhere. The trick is to convince my feet and footwear to play nice together. So I did sit-ups while watching American Idol instead.

Watching a professional athlete in his/her element inspires me. I want that discipline. I want that adrenaline. (And to be completely honest, I want that physique.) Which means I find the Olympics quite fascinating and motivational.

Secret of the day: When I was little, I wanted to become a figure skater and then convince Kurt Browning to be my partner. I still can't spin on ice. Or stop. When he fell during his short program in '94, I almost cried. I remember playing a really angry song at the piano that evening....

Today, the Canadian Olympic outfits were revealed. They do not inspire me to any sort of athleticism. In fact, it's the exact opposite. I think I might sit on my couch all weekend just to make sure that I don't become an athlete and accidentally end up at the Olympics, representing my country in red, white and GREEN?!



Remember when Roots designed the Canadian gear? We were the envy of nations. In 1998, the "Canada Poorboy" hat was seen on both Puff Daddy (his name at the time) and Prince Charles. International buyers were just scooping it up. Kids on the schoolyards exaggerated their saunters as they showed off their Olympic wear. Not this year. We will be laughed at. Canadian athletes will be blinded by the dizzying patterns they don. Or just confused as to whether they're in "uniform" or pajamas. The above red-and-white suit would be great loungewear in Miami.

Why? Oh, Hudson's Bay Company, you make striped blankets well. Stick to that.

The Poorboy on Canada's own "poor boy," Ross Rebagliati.
Say no to drugs, kids.

P.S. After staring at these outfits for a while, they're now almost non-nauseating. You know how you smell manure when you first visit a farm but eventually adjust and stop noticing? I'm slowly acclimating to the bizarreness.

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